


i’d hold you as the water rushes in

by BuddysImpala



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: 1912, Angst, As factual as possible... but I am not a historian lmao, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Help, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I guess Instalust??, I mean they meet on this ship so, I’m still writing this shit, I’ve only seen the movie once when I was like 11-12, M/M, More tags to be added, My notes are pretty damn impressive though, NOT based off the movie other than the fact that there is a ‘relationship’, Phineas is not painting Phillip naked tho sorry to disappoint, Rating is subject to change, Romance, SHIP YOUR SHIP ABOARD THE SHIP, Titanic - Freeform, Titanic AU, barlyle - Freeform, it was supposed to be a oneshot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26875906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuddysImpala/pseuds/BuddysImpala
Summary: Phillip Carlyle has lived in Europe for four years, but now it is time to come home.orThe Barlyle Titanic AU that nobody asked for.
Relationships: P. T. Barnum/Phillip Carlyle
Comments: 15
Kudos: 36





	1. November, 1911

**Author's Note:**

> So...
> 
> This was supposed to be a one shot.
> 
> That, obviously, did not happen, and I’m still in the progress of writing it, lol. So updates *might* be slow, I’m not sure on an update schedule yet, but I swear I will write this full thing even if it kills me. 
> 
> A couple things:
> 
> 1) Other than the fact that a relationship starts to build, this is not related to the movie in any way. At 22, I’ve only seen the movie once in my life — back when I was 11 or 12 — and any other similarities are purely coincidence. I’ve just had a fascination with the ship herself for over a decade so this is pretty much just self-fulfillment with my OTP. 😂
> 
> 2) The rating is T for now, HOWEVER, it is SUBJECT TO CHANGE. It will likely either stay T or *maybe* slide up to M, but I’m currently undecided. I don’t have the full thing written out so... guess we’ll see!

The envelope arrives on a crisp autumn day in mid-November. It’s a day that Phillip has been dreading since starting his university studies in England four years ago, and he takes a deep breath before opening the contents with shaking fingers.

The telegram begins simply:

_ Phillip, _

_ You may find your tickets for your returning voyage to America inside. I have booked two First Class cabins on the R.M.S. Titanic — she is said by many to be the finest ship of our time, they say she is unsinkable, and she will be making her maiden voyage come April. _

_ I will be arriving a few weeks before she is set to sail to see to it that you indeed board the voyage home. Your mother eagerly awaits your return and we will then begin preparations for you to take over my business. I am ashamed to say you are the one I must pass down to, but your mother insists that one disgraceful son is better than no son at all.  _

_ I will see you come the end of March. _

_ Do not disappoint me, boy. _

_ —T. Carlyle _

The letter trembles in Phillip’s hands and tears prick at his eyes. He sinks into a chair and his father’s words fall from his fingers, fluttering to the floor. 

The tickets — two, one for him and one for his father — remain beside the envelope on the table. 

Back home.

Back under his father’s rule.

After four wonderful, fleeting years.

He wants nothing more than to tear up the tickets. Pretend they got lost in the mail. Change addresses. Flee further into the depths of Europe, change his name, never resurface.

With his father coming to chaperone him home, that is not an option. He shudders, picturing his father’s wrath if he dared attempt such a thing.

He cannot.

He is returning home with his father come April.

A lump forms in his throat as Phillip manages to stand again. He rarely drank since coming to England, but now his gums itch, aching for Scotch or rum.

He needs a drink.

Maybe two.


	2. March, 1912

The telegram arrives just a day before his father is set to make an appearance.

_Dearest Phillip,_

_Regrettably, your Father has fallen ill. It is not life-threatening, but will have him bedridden for some time. I have our nurses tending to him to the best of their abilities, and I will be coming to you in your Father’s place. I shall arrive the same day he intended — I do hope this letter reaches you before then. If not, perhaps it is something we will be able to laugh about as we read over my tardy words together._

_I will see you soon, dear._

_Love,_

_Catherine Carlyle_

The anxiety that had been steadily building in Phillip’s chest since the day he received notice from his father slowly evaporates. He feels so much relief, he thinks perhaps he may cry, or faint. He clutches the telegram to his chest, crumpling the crisp paper, clutching it so tightly his knuckles turn white.

God bless his mother.

God bless whoever it was in the universe who’d taken a little pity on him.

For the first time since receiving his father’s initial telegram, Phillip does not feel the need to drink himself into a crippling stupor that evening.


	3. March 26th, 1912

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s like 11:43 p.m. on Tuesday for me, but I wanted to stick to a schedule as much as possible and idk how busy I am tomorrow, so here you go 👀

His mother arrives the next day — Tuesday, March 26th.

He meets her at the docks and finds her easily enough in the small crowd. Once she sees him, she beams and hurries over as quickly as she can. He bows his head to kiss her cheek and she frets over him, setting her bags down to cup his face in her delicate hands.

“Phillip, my darling,” she murmurs. “It’s been too long.”

Phillip smiles wistfully. Four years away from his father felt like a vacation, but he couldn’t say the same about his mother. He did miss her, and he takes her in now as she looks up at him.

There are perhaps new lines around her mouth and eyes, and he takes notice of a few grays in her hair. She mustn’t have noticed them, or she would have plucked them out straight away. But, she is the same woman who has cared for him, despite his father’s grievances, for twenty-five years.

“Mother,” he hums, small smile gracing his lips, “How have you been?”

It is then, as his question escapes his lips, that he remembers the luggage she has brought with her. No trunk, like so many other women of the upper class insist on toting around on their travels, but several bags. His face warms as he reaches for them.

“Mother, I’m sorry,” he says, embarrassed. “Please, let me—“

She chuckles at him. “Phillip, dear, there is no reason to fret over me.” But, she does not protest further as he takes her bags.

“Traveling light?” he quips.

His mother waves it off. “Your father fell ill quite suddenly. There was no time to prepare a trunk, and I’d rather the housekeeps stayed behind to look after him.”

Phillip is amazed. Normally, Catherine Carlyle would never pull off something so daring. But... his father is not around. Perhaps this is a glimpse of the woman she was before she married him. She behaved quite differently around his father.

They all did.

Catherine questions Phillip as they walk. He speaks fondly of his years in Europe, pausing only to hail a buggy back to his apartment.

As he helps his mother aboard, she changes the tune of her questioning.

“How do you feel about coming back home, dear?”

Phillip stiffens, but only for a beat before he answers, “I’m looking forward to it. Truth be told, I miss our home, the people. I’ve especially missed Esmeralda’s blueberry pie.”

Catherine chuckles. Phillip thinks he is out of the woods — until she stops laughing to look directly at him, into his eyes. Her eyes, the color he inherited, pierce into him.

“And, your father? Have you missed him as much as you’ve missed Esmeralda’s pie?”

Hardly.

Phillip tries to smile, but he’s sure that it is small and tight-lipped. “It will be nice to see Father again,” he says. Not a yes, but not a no, either. 

Certainly a lie, though.

Catherine raises a brow, but doesn’t get a chance to question Phillip further before they arrive at his apartment. He takes her bags and they exit the buggy, Phillip leaving a generous tip for the driver behind his mother’s back. His parents didn’t believe in tipping. He thought it was common courtesy. 

Thankfully, his mother changes the topic as they approach the door.

“Have you started packing yet?”

Phillip pauses. His grin is sheepish.

“Ah... hardly,” he admits with a chuckle.

Catherine scowls at him.

“Well, then, we haven’t time to waste!”

They reach Phillip’s door and he sets his mother’s bags down to dig out his key. He holds the door open for his mother, nodding her inside.

“After you.”


	4. April, 1912

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter after this might take just a little longer to get out. It depends on how much I’m able to write this week 🤔

The days leading up to their departure seem to creep up on Phillip, and before he knows it, it is April 9th, the day before they are to leave. It is his last night in his apartment, his last night in Europe.

In just a number of days, he will again be obeying his father’s every command. And, there isn’t a doubt in Phillip’s mind that his father still possesses the same cane he’d used all those years ago to—

Phillip visibly flinches.

His mother, just approaching from another room, tilts her head. “Is something wrong, dear?”

Phillip startles at her appearance, but he sets his jaw, inhaling sharply through his nose. “No, Mother. I’m all right. Just...” He pauses for perhaps a second too long, “...reminiscing.”

Thankfully, Catherine seems to believe him. She nods, almost absentmindedly, eyes sweeping across the room. “It is quite sad, isn’t it? Everything has become so... barren.”

Phillip was traveling light back to America. Most of his things were sold or given away, a few truly important things put into storage to ship out later — he wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to bring them on this initial voyage. Not yet. 

He had packed away a few essential things, but there was no telling what his father would allow him to keep. The most important things, his stories and journals and other writings, he would have to find a way to keep from his father’s sight.

If possible.

Phillip is shaken out of his thoughts when Catherine places her hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch though, her hand doesn’t possess the same threat as his father’s. Instead, he turns to gaze down at her, her eyes sad though there is a slight smile on her lips.

“I know you’ve built quite a life for yourself here, son. But, it is time to come home.”

“Yes.” Phillip takes a deep breath.

“Home.”


	5. April 10th, 1912; A.M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve decided that each day aboard the ship will be split into two parts — A.M. and P.M.
> 
> This was supposed to be a one shot, LOL

They rise early the morning of April 10th. They must be at the train station on time — the ride to Southhampton will be an hour, perhaps more — and Catherine hopes to reach Titanic early enough to be among the first to board. Phillip doesn’t bother to tell her that the docks will likely be far more crowded than her arrival three weeks ago. Titanic was, after all, a much anticipated voyage by many.

Phillip’s eyelids droop and he has to fight to stay awake in the carriage to the station. He’d had a terribly restless night of sleep, having gone to bed late despite his mother’s clucking of, “Early to bed, early to rise.” Then he’d had trouble actually falling asleep — much of his night was spent tossing and turning, his mind filled with anxieties, not of the voyage, but of facing his father. It was a miracle he’d been able to sleep at all.

Despite his efforts to stay awake, he finds his eyes have involuntarily closed and it is only when his mother jostles him that he realizes they are at the station. He jerks awake — he’d been leaned against the carriage window, squished uncomfortably into the corner — and, mumbling an apology, rises to follow Catherine off the carriage.

They go through the motions of receiving their train tickets and boarding. It’s all a blur to Phillip, he barely registers the time between stepping off of the carriage and onto the train. His mother asks if he’s all right, and it sounds like she’s speaking to him from underwater. He isn’t sure if he responds.

Phillip all but collapses in his seat, eyes already fluttering shut. At least he has more opportunity to sleep now, the train ride scheduled to take over an hour. 

He feels his mother’s hand on his cheek, but that’s the last conscious thought his mind registers.

*

They arrive at the docks around nine thirty. The ship doesn’t board until ten, according to the information they’d received, but the docks are already overflowing with people.

Phillip had been expecting this — Titanic was a large ship after all, boarding thousands, he’d expected nothing less — but still his eyes widen at the sight. His mother stiffens beside him, suddenly frozen in her tracks, balking at the crowd.

“I told you,” Phillip mumbles. Not in a rude manner — though, had his father been there, he’d have been striked across the mouth regardless — but knowingly, and somewhat pitiful for his mother. She’d had no idea that they’d be expected to wait in long lines, so accustom to what their first class life had brought them. But, though they had First Class cabins, they would still be expected to wait in a monstrous crowd with everybody else in order to board this ship.

Phillip was still naive — very naive — about a lot of things himself. Despite the suffocation under his father’s roof, he’d still lived an extremely privileged life compared to most. But, living and studying in a foreign land for years had also opened his eyes to a lot of things. He no longer expected to be chauffeured along, and he was accustom to waiting in long lines.

Still, he had never seen anything quite like... this.

The crowd was impressive, that was true. But... it was the ship that truly took his breath away. Docked and waiting to board, she stretched, it seemed, for miles above them. He was not standing on the direct edge in front of her, in fact, they were several rows of people away. But already he felt dwarfed next to her, havingbutnever seen anything so impressive, so beautiful, in all his life.

The ship he’d boarded when he originally come to Europe was nothing compared to Titanic. Never in his life had he ever boarded anything even half as splendid. Phillip did not know a thing about automobiles or boats or ships or even the new airplanes that were becoming more and more popularized. But, he did not need to know about these other things to know that Titanic was one of the most splendid ships in all the world.

He hated to admit it, absolutely loathed it, but his father had been right. He had not even set foot aboard the ship, but already he knew that she was the finest ship of their time. Perhaps the finest he would ever see again in his life.

His mother, it seems, is awestruck too. She gapes up at the massive ship, her grip on Phillip’s arm suddenly tightening, fingernails digging into his skin even through the jacket he wore.

He nudges her gently. “Are you all right, Mother?”

Mutely, she nods.

Before they can board the ship herself, doctors await to quickly examine them. Their exams can’t be thorough — they have quite the cluster of passengers to clear through — but both Phillip and his mother are given a clean bill of health and sent on their way.

Finally, it is ten o’clock.

Phillip doesn’t know how they’ll ever make it through this crowd, but he realizes that they are, in fact, moving — slow, but quite steady. The crowd is massive, large enough that part of him wonders how the docks have not collapsed from underneath them, but it seems that the crowd has been made larger than it truly is, as most of the people don’t seem to be boarding Titanic at all. They are here to see their friends and family off, wishing them a safe voyage to America.

It seems he and his mother are among the only ones without friends or family seeing them off. Despite the relief he’d found in his freedom, he realized that, in four years, he’d never quite made any friends or close acquaintances.

And family, well...

As they move closer to boarding, Phillip takes out his boarding pass. It’s then he realizes that his mother has her boarding pass too, despite having only making plans to voyage on the ship herself just weeks earlier.

Catherine sees him looking. “Your father had purchased a pass for me too, originally,” she mumbles, “It was only after it arrived that he decided he wanted to bring you home alone.”

Phillip stiffens.

He can only imagine the things his father wanted to do or say to him that were so bad he’d decided against having Catherine around.

Not for the first time, Phillip closes his eyes and says a silent thanks that his mother was able to escort him home instead.

The man checking the boarding passes waves them onto the ship, shaking Phillip out of his thoughts. His breath hitches as they climb the ramp from dock to deck, and his eyes widen as he looks around.

He’s just taken his last steps on European ground.

They’re aboard.

Not more than a few seconds could’ve passed before a man in ship’s uniform approaches them. He’s wearing long pants and sleeves, but he raises his hand in greeting and his sleeve slips down, revealing a brief glimpse of the tattoos snaking up and down his arm. Phillip’s eyebrows arch up in surprise, but the man only smirks as he pulls his sleeve, covering his painted skin once more.

“Welcome aboard,” the man says. “First Class?”

Catherine nods, showing the man their boarding passes.

“Come, then,” the man says, “I’ll show you to your cabins.”

The sense of camouflage Phillip had felt in the crowd quickly evaporates. He doubts that other passengers, those of Second and Third Class, have a personal escort to their rooms.

Once again, he is reminded of his — or rather, his father’s — status.

As they are led to their cabins — they are among the highest in deck level, A Deck, the man says — Catherine asks their escort his name.

“Technically we all have titles aboard the ship, but you may call me Constantine, ma’am,” he says, lopsided smile lighting up his face. 

“Well, thank you, Constantine,” Catherine says. Phillip, too, says a quick thanks, though he can’t concentrate long enough on the others as his eyes roam over the long hall, taking everything in.

They’re not moving yet, but it hardly feels as if they’re on a ship.

Constantine catches Phillip’s roaming eyes, and chuckles. “First Class passengers have access to all sorts of exclusive amenities. A Deck is exclusively First Class, with access to our nicest dining areas, a smoking room and bar, the reading and writing room, a library—“

Phillip’s gums itch at the mention of a bar, but he swallows, throat dry, and instead asks, “A library?”

Constantine chuckles again. “Ah, that caught your interest, huh? Yes, Titanic has her own library, open from 8 a.m. to 11:30 p.m. I could give you directions, if you like?”

Despite having been on his own for four years, Phillip catches himself glancing at his mother, old habits creeping back as he silently asks her permission. She chuckles.

“Go on ahead. Once I’ve settled in my room, I’ll probably take a nap before we set sail. I’m not used to rising so early.” She accents her point with a yawn.

Constantine doesn’t bother to correct her ‘set sail’ remark. He continues their tour until, finally, they stop at two doors down a long hallway.

“Your rooms are right across from each other,” Constantine explains. “Mr. Carlyle, yours—“

“Phillip,” he corrects quickly. A lump rises in his throat.

“Phillip, then,” Constantine amends, not missing a beat, “Yours is here.” He motions to one of the doors. “And yours, ma’am, is here.” The one directly across from it.

Biting his lip, Phillip tries to study the room number. All of the halls look the same to him... he isn’t sure how he’ll ever find his room again if he chooses to explore.

“I’ll let you two get settled, then,” Constantine says. Catherine nods her thanks, and the man looks at Phillip. “Would you still like me to point you in the direction of the library?”

“I need five minutes,” Phillip admits.

“Of course. I’ll be back momentarily.”

Constantine flashes another bright grin, and then he’s off around the corridor.

Catherine goes into her cabin after promising that she’ll be up and about before Titanic is to leave the dock. Phillip goes into his room as well, closing the door behind him. He leans back against it, closing his eyes.

Breathe. He has to remember to breathe.

His heart races in his chest, drumming, reminding him that every second brings him closer to his father. Sick now, but Theodore will be up and reigning again before long — he’ll likely be feeling better before they ever reach New York. Bile rises in Phillip’s throat, acid stinging, and he squeezes his eyes shut to—

Somebody raps at the door.

“Phillip?” Constantine‘s voice drifts loud enough to hear.

Phillip gasps. His chest rises and falls as rapidly as a drowning man’s taking his first breath of fresh air.

“Y-Yes,” he calls out, “I’m here.”

He turns. Opens the door.

Constantine’s eyes widen just slightly.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “You look a little green, Mr. Phillip.”

“Yes,” Phillip gasps again, “I’m fine.”

A smirk tugs at the seaman’s lip.

“Already getting a bit seasick, eh?” he teases.

“Exactly,” Phillip nods. He doesn’t care. Better Constantine to think him weak with seasickness than to know of the things that truly plagued his mind.

The smirk turns to a smile of sympathy. “Were you still interested in the library?”

“Please.”

But, despite his words, Phillip only half-listens as Constantine gives him directions.

“It’s here on A Deck as well, so it shouldn’t take you too long to find,” Constantine concludes.

Phillip nods absentmindedly. “Uh-huh. Thank you.”

He doesn’t miss the funny look Constantine throws him, but he doesn’t care. The seaman leaves and Phillip follows moments later.

He has absolutely no idea where he’s going.

Around him, other First Class passengers are being escorted to their cabins. Some wish him hello, others don’t pay him any mind, but he ignores all of them. He hurries down the hall, turning this way and that, stopping short when he comes across a closed door. Beside it, a small gold-colored plaque with three wonderful words engraved,

_First Class Bar._

A smile slowly spreads across Phillip’s face.

No, it wasn’t the library.

But, this suited him all the much more.


	6. April 10th, 1912; P.M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy HECK has it been awhile.
> 
> If it’s any consolation for the ungodly length of time it’s been, this chapter is over 5,000 words long. I’ve been dealing with some mental health bullshit as of late, but she’s here!
> 
> Enjoy, and PLEASE comment if you wanna! I think this is the longest chapter I’ve written for anything ever.

The bar is near empty, which isn’t surprising. It’s only morning, after all, Titanic has yet to leave port. Nobody in their right mind would be tossing back shots at this hour... then again, Phillip isn’t exactly in his ‘right mind’ at the moment.

In fact, despite the bar’s near-emptiness, he doesn’t notice when he and the bartender have company. He startles when somebody calls his name.

“Phillip? Phillip Carlyle?”

He turns, blinking bleary, clouded eyes at the man who stands before him. 

“Do I know you?” he slurs.

“No, but I’ve been looking for you.” The man who, Phillip can tell, even in his drunken state, appears to be a good deal older than Phillip himself, makes a sudden grab for Phillip’s wrist and Phillip cries out, knocking into the bar top as he jerks away.

“Hey, watch it!”

The man sighs.

“Listen, I’m not exactly allowed to be here, but your mother sent me to find you. Titanic leaves port soon, she insists you were to watch the departure together.”

Oh. Oh, shit.

Cussing under his breath, Phillip moves to stand. He stumbles into the bar again, and the man’s arm flies out to steady him. 

“Am I too late?” Phillip mumbles.

“No. We leave port at noon, it’s 11:52 now. Come, we can just make it.”

No time to try to sober himself up. Shit.

Phillip leans heavily on the man as he is led out of the bar. They move too quickly and his head spins. He fears throwing up.

“Wait. Stop. I need—“

A mixture of concern and irritation contorts the man’s features. He doesn’t stop, but slows considerably. Phillip hangs off his arm.

“What... What’s your name?”

The man snorts.

“P.T. Barnum, at your service. Could we get going, now? I imagine your mother will get quite upset if we don’t make it.”

Phillip starts to nod, but the motion makes him wince. He pauses, just a moment.

“Yes.”

Phillip allows himself to be led like a rag doll to the boat deck.

“Later on,” P.T. rumbles in his ear, “Should our paths cross again, you simply  _must_ enlighten me as to why I found you drinking yourself into complete oblivion at eleven in the morning on a Wednesday.”

Phillip blushes red from the tips of his ears down to his neck. P.T. lets out a loud, hearty laugh, his grip tightening on Phillip just slightly.

“Phillip!” a delicate voice calls. “Oh, Phillip!”

Suddenly, all laughter ceases.

Relief floods Catherine’s face as she rushes towards her son. She reaches up, intending to take Phillip’s face in her hands, but she falters. Wrinkles her nose, takes a step back.

“Phillip, have you—“

“Quickly now,” P.T. interjects, “It’s almost time. Surely you want to be able to peer over the edge? Go on, space is quickly filling up.”

Catherine blinks. “Yes, yes, you’re right. Thank you for finding him, Mr. Barnum. I hope the staff didn’t give you much trouble.”

Phillip scowls as he’s talked about as if he were a lost child.

A white, gleaming smile lights up P.T.’s face. “It was no trouble at all, ma’am.”

Catherine smiles once more at him before turning back to her son. “Come now, Phillip. It’s almost time.”

Head in a fog, Phillip allows himself to be led to an empty portion of deck. They sandwich between other passengers and he takes hold of the railing, attempting to squint past the thin veil that’s been draped over his eyes. The fresh air is helping some, but he’d evidently been able to drink more than he realized before he was... interrupted.

He looks back, just a moment, for P.T. The man is nowhere to be seen.

“Eyes forward, now,” Catherine urges. Her hand is on his arm, and she squeezes him.

She makes no comment of Phillip’s intoxicated state, but guilt floods his mind.

The air around him buzzes with conversation. The excited chatter of passengers, the squealing laughter of children. Some people are crying. He feels like he’d like to cry, too, only he suspects their reasons for crying are much, much different.

He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay in England. England, where he’d been able to manage his alcohol intake for four years. England, away from his real life, away from his fa—

He jerks when the horn goes off, signaling their departure. Somehow, the noise levels around him only grow in intensity. Catherine mumbles something in his ear, but he can’t hear. She squeezes his arm again and giggles, high and shrill.

She’s nervous too, he realizes.

Around him, passengers onboard are waving to those remaining on the docks. He lifts his hand, waves too, though he has nobody to wave to.

He’s waving goodbye to the land where he felt in control of his own life.

Tears roll down his cheeks and he looks away, ducks his head and steps away from the railing. He wishes his mother would just leave him alone, but she follows him him away from the crowd. Her brows are knit together in worry, and his stomach turns. He cannot stand that she is worried for him now.

Where was this concern under his father’s hand?

“Phillip, dear, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he whispers, phony even to his own ears. His stomach rolls again and he groans, shuffling over to a chair on the deck. Catherine follows like a mother hen, suddenly concerned for her son despite insisting he needed to “learn his place” under his father’s hand for over twenty years.

“Phillip—“

With a gasp, he stumbles to his feet yet again. Shoving past a group of passengers, ignoring their annoyed mutters, he grips the railing and pitches forward. Strands of normally neatly-kept hair hang in his face, and his cheeks are flushed.

The last trace of himself that he leaves in Europe is the sickness that spills into the sea.

*

He supposes he should be thankful that his mother believed he suffered from seasickness. She insists that he retire to his cabin for awhile, and this allows him time for the most severe effects of his drunkenness to ebb. A dull throb settles behind his eyes, but at least he no longer feels dizzy or sick.

Catherine had not returned to their cabins with him, so when Phillip finally decides to venture out again, he has no idea where on the massive ship his mother could have ended up. The halls are long and empty, smelling faintly of fresh paint, vaguely familiar now that he thinks back to his pre-drunken venture. 

No badly how much he may want to, he will not return to the bar. He will not.

He stumbles across the Grand Staircase quite by accident. He thinks maybe Constantine had mentioned it in his brief tour of the First Class, but he’d completely forgotten about it... until now. His cabin is on one of the uppermost decks so the staircase stretches down before him, leading down to other cabins and the rest of First Class.

He grabs hold of the railing, thinking perhaps he’ll venture further, when he notices the other figure on the stairs, and he startles.

The other man has yet to notice him, and Phillip realizes with a jolt that he recognizes the passenger.

“P.T.?” he calls out.

Sure enough, the older man looks up at the sound of his name. Upon seeing Phillip, he smiles.

“Ah, long time no see, Phil! Doing better?”

“Quite,” Phillip says, though his headache still persists. He walks down a few steps, but he still remains several away from the other man. “What are you doing here? Have you a cabin near?”

At that, P.T. laughs. “I’m flattered that you think so highly of me, dear Phillip.”

Phillip’s face warms in embarrassment. He ducks his head. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed you were...”

But, as he drifts off, letting his words fade out, he truly looks at P.T. for the first time. Not at his face, or at his eyes, which sparkle in good humor, but... his clothes. Not rags, but very much worn and slightly outdated. And Phillip realizes for the first time that this man was probably not a man of wealth.

So what had he been doing in First Class?

“When you came looking for me...” Phillip’s voice is hardly above a mumble, but he looks back up, meeting P.T.’s eyes, “The bar I was in was exclusively First Class.” 

Phillip was almost afraid he’d offended him, but, to his surprise, P.T. chuckles, and the corner of his lip curls up into a good-natured smirk. “I told you that your mother sent me looking for you.”

“But then... how did you get access?” Phillip is genuinely baffled. His mind races as he tries to connect the dots.

P.T.’s smirk grows into a brilliant grin. “You’d be surprised what you can get away with when you know staff aboard the ship.”

“Oh?”

“It so happens that my dear friend Lettie is a chef aboard, and quite the brilliant one at that. In fact, it was she who helped snag me a Second Class ticket. If it weren’t for her, I’d probably be the lowest of the low in the Third Class.”

The lowest... in the Third Class.

The lowest of the low, as P.T. himself had put it.

“I’m... sorry.” Phillip leans back against the staircase railing, feeling, not for the first time, ashamed of his family’s wealth. It wasn’t his money. Not really. Hell, if he’d truly broken off from his parents like he’d always wanted to, he’d probably barely be able to afford a Third Class boarding pass himself. He had no money of his own... and no real life experience. He could hardly work to earn his keep on the ship, unlike this Lettie.

She was probably much, much smarter than he.

“Mmm. Don’t be sorry.”

P.T. pauses.

“Speaking of the staff, though, it seems you’ve run into Constantine a time or two already, huh?”

Phillip looks up. They lock eyes. P.T.’s are the color of whiskey and lovingly etched with years of laugh lines.

“You know Constantine, too?” Phillip asks.

“Not before boarding, no, but I’ve met quite a few interesting folk since our time abroad.”

“We’ve been en route less than half a day,” Phillip points out. Really, if they started counting the clock at Noon, they’d been properly aboard the ship for less than four hours.

Phineas beams at him. His smile is white and perfect. “I make friends quite easily.”

Something about that statement makes red heat rise in Phillip’s cheeks.

“Er, you needed help finding your cabin?” Phillip straightens. His grip on the railing is a tad too tight, perhaps he doesn’t quite trust his footing yet after his... _episode_... earlier that morning.

“You know the way?”

Phillip’s laugh comes out sounding more like a scoff. “No idea. But, come on, we’ll find it. Do you remember the cabin number, at least?”

P.T. pauses for two seconds too long.

Phillip groans. Loudly.

He doesn’t know where to go, but he does know, at least, the difference between up and down. His cabin is upstairs so he figures the Second Class cabins must be somewhere on the lower decks. He makes his way carefully down the Grand Staircase.

P.T.’s laugh is loud and lovely as he follows Phillip down the stairs.

“Where do you suppose everybody is?” Phillip asks after they walk in silence for a few minutes. He still doesn’t know where his own mother had gotten off to.

He sees P.T. shrug out of the corner of his eye. “Some Second and Third Class folk are possibly still wandering around, like me, looking for their cabins. I imagine other passengers are either resting in their rooms or otherwise enjoying the amenities.”

“Amenities?” Phillip parrots.

“You fancy First Class folk get more luxuries than we do — I don’t believe we have a gym or a swimming pool — but we have a library, too, a smoking area, and restaurants and shops. No squash court for us, though.”

“Squash?”

P.T. smirks, nudging Phillip with his shoulder.

“Echo, echo,” he teases.

Phillip blushes for the second time since running into the man on the staircase.

“Do you play?” P.T. suddenly asks.

“What?”

“Squash.”

“Oh. I’ve... never been one for sports, no.”

“I thought you fancy folk had private instructors for all sorts of things,” P.T. says. He isn’t mocking Phillip, though. No. He seems... genuinely curious.

“Oh, my father tried, but even he isn’t the phys— _athletic_ sort of man. The only thing that ever stuck with me was horse-riding.”

“An equestrian!” P.T. sounds absolutely delighted. “English or Western?”

“English. Strictly English. But I’ve never been particularly good at that, either. It just happened to be the one sport I sort-of enjoyed.”

“So, if you say there isn’t any sport you’re good at, then what  _are_ you good at, Phillip?”

Phillip pauses. He’s quiet for a long time.

He has absolutely no idea how to answer the question.

“There... isn’t much,” he admits. His voice has noticeably dropped several octaves.

“Oh, come now. Everybody is good at something.”

Phillip drops his head, very intently studying the patterns in the floor as they walk. They’ve gone down a few staircases, and he’s no idea which deck they’re on at this point.

“I suppose... writing,” he finally says, quietly.

“Ah!” P.T. sounds delighted. “What sort? Novels, plays, poetry?”

“Ah... playwriting. But it’s never gotten anywhere.” Phillip shrugs.

P.T. stops dead in his tracks. He pulls Phillip to a stop, too, and Phillip is all-too-aware of the man’s steady grip on his arm.

But, P.T. is not hurting him.

This hold is nothing like the others.

“You will get there, Phillip,” P.T. murmurs.

Oh, God. Phillip’s heart thunders in his ears.

“What about you?” he blurts.

Curiously, P.T.’s hand drops. He starts walking again, and Phillip hurries to keep up. “Hmm?”

“You asked me whether I practiced sports, what my hobbies are. But what about you?”

“Ah. Well, unfortunately the swimming pool aboard ship is only for you First Class folk. But, I do quite enjoy swimming.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before. That bar — it was ‘strictly’ First Class, but you still made it in. Because you have ‘special connections,’” air quotes, “remember?”

P.T. chuckles. “Yes, well, sharing a drink with a man is one thing. I imagine people would react quite differently if a man of lesser class were stripping half-naked to share in the same water as them.”

“Oh. I’m sor—“

“Besides,” P.T. turns to him with a smirk, “I imagine I’d be kicked out for entirely different reasons... as I do not have any swimwear.”

Oh.

Oh, God.

Phillip’s eyes widen, but, thankfully, P.T. turns away. He scans the numbers of the doors they pass and comes to a sudden stop.

“Ah, here,” he says. “This is it.”

Phillip watches, wide-eyed now for different reasons, as P.T. easily pulls out a key and unlocks a door.

And then, like a fool, it only now clicks with Phillip that P.T... has absolutely no luggage with him.

When his door swings open, his luggage is there, sitting perfectly in the middle of the room.

“You tricked me!” Phillip exclaims.

He’s not angry, though. No. Only disbelieving.

“I did, yes,” P.T. admits. His tone is sheepish.

His grin, though, suggests an entirely different story.

“Care to come inside?” P.T. invites, gesturing into the doorway.

“Ah...”

“What? I don’t bite.” P.T. chuckles.

“What time is it?”

“Don’t know exactly, but supper serves from seven to eight. We have an hour or two.”

That means Phillip likely has an hour or so before his mother starts looking for him again. He takes a deep breath, nods, and steps into P.T.’s cabin—

—Until P.T.’s arm shoots out, blocking his way. Phillip looks up, confusion etching in his features, no doubt showing in his eyes. 

“I never show another man my room before properly introducing myself,” he teases.

Phillip swallows, hard. Surely he’s overthinking, but... the implication of P.T.’s words send his mind into overdrive. Surely P.T. isn’t, _can’t_ be—

“The name’s Phineas.” This time his smile is gentler and only a fraction of his brilliant grin, and it’s nothing but friendly. “The T stands for Taylor, after my grandfather.”

“Phineas Taylor Barnum,” Phillip mumbles .

“At your service,” the man bows with an exaggerated flourish.

“Do you prefer P.T., or—“

Straightening up, Phineas says, “I go by P.T. professionally, but my closest friends call me Phineas. I consider us friends, no?”

“Friends...?”

“Echo,” Phineas smiles.

Phillip feels very much out of his element here with this unabashed man. But, slowly, his attention shifts away from Phineas and into his room.

The layout appears to be very similar, but Second Class cabins are evidently smaller than First Class, and it doesn’t look like Phineas has his own washing space. He has a couple suitcases laid out on the bed, which is pushed against the wall, but no trunk. There’s a bookcase in the corner that catches Phillip’s eye, not stuffed full, but containing a few novels. Phillip drifts toward it, and Phineas chuckles.

“Are these yours?” Phillip asks.

“Some are. Others were there when I got here so I assume they’re part of the ship’s inventory. Though why they aren’t in the library, I don’t know.”

A copy of _Great Expectations_ catches Phillip’s eye. He pulls it out, carefully examines the cover. It’s old and worn, well-loved.

“That one’s mine. You can have it, if you like.”

Phillip looks up. His lips part in question.

Phineas shrugs. “I don’t read much. Just brought those with me because they were some of the few possessions I could carry easily. Can’t do much when you have two bags and no trunk.”

He had more-or-less echoed Phillip’s exact thoughts from earlier.

“Echo,” Phillip murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“Ah... nothing”

Phillip looks down at the book in his hands. Phineas had said that he didn’t read much, but the book is worn and tattered, obviously having been handled quite a bit. Curiously, he opens the book, and a piece of paper falls out.

Horrified, Phillip reaches down, an apology already ready at his lips. Oh, God. He’d had the book not two seconds and already ruined it, dear Lord, _Father would whip him for sure—_

Phineas swoops down and snatches the paper up before Phillip so much as grazes the corners. When he straightens back up, he won’t — can’t — meet the man in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“What for?”

Phillip flinches. Was he really going to make him say it? “I... I ruined your book.” 

Phineas’s laughter surprises him. 

“Phillip,” the man rumbles. His name on Phineas’s lips sounds like warm honey, “You didn’t ruin anything. That wasn’t part of the book. Simply... a note that somebody dear wrote to me, a long time ago.”

“Your wife,” Phillip fills in without quite realizing that he’s speaking loudly enough to be heard, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know—“

“Not a wife. My father. He died when I was young...” 

Phillip looks up. To his surprise, Phineas chuckles.

“Probably, in fact, before you were ever born.”

This reminder makes Phillip flush. Somehow he’d found himself alone in a cabin with an older man, one who was an absolute stranger...

_(oh, if your father could see you now)_

_(what’s father going to say once he finds out?)_

His mind was being plagued again. This was why he’d made his way into the bar. These thoughts had left him alone for his four years of study in Europe, but now they were back, having made their return as soon as he was headed back... back under his father’s roof, _back under the cane, back—_

“I’m sorry,” Phillip rasps. His eyes are filling with tears, he prays that Phineas can’t see them, “I have to go.”

He hurries out the door with Phineas’s copy of _Great Expectations_ still in hand.

*

He and his mother arrive back at their cabins at exactly the same time.

“Phillip, dear, I’m glad you’re up!” she exclaims. Her delight is too much for him to handle right now, but, of course, he cannot say anything. The smile he gives her feels painted on. “Were you able to explore some? I was worried you were too overcome with seasickness to leave the cabin.”

Ah, right. Seasickness. He’d almost forgotten that part.

“I was able to explore, yes,” he says faintly. His words sound hollow to his own ears. “I ran into Phineas, in fact.”

“Phineas?” Catherine frowns.

“The man you sent for me in the ba— sent to find me. Earlier, before the ship left port.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Recognition lights up in her eyes. “Where did you bump into him? Is he doing well? I hope he didn’t get sick, too.”

“He’s doing fine, Mother. I ran into him in one of the common areas.”

“How lovely,” Catherine gushes. “Well, dear, are you feeling well enough to escort me to supper?”

Truth be told, he’d rather just read in his room — Phineas’s copy of _Great Expectations_ lies waiting inside his coat — but he feels guilty at the prospect of disappointing her a second time. “Of course, Mother. I just need a moment to... gussy up.”

She’s nodding as he slips into his cabin. As soon as the door is properly shut behind him, he takes out _Great Expectations_ and hides it under his mattress.

Well, at least he’d have reading material for tonight.

A glance in the mirror tells him his appearance is... passable. Not a hair out of place nor a button undone, anyway. His eyes look a little red-rimmed, a little puffy, most definitely from the drinking, but he hopes that it’s faint enough that nobody else should notice unless their faces were inches apart.

Phineas’s face flashes in his mind. Horrified, he immediately shakes that thought away.

Phineas said that he didn’t receive _Great Expectations_ from a wife, not that he didn’t have a wife entirely. The fact that he had a single-bed cabin meant nothing. Phineas, like Phillip, had an American accent. His wife was probably in America already, awaiting her husband to come home from business overseas. Perhaps they had children.

He simply could not — _must not_ — think of Phineas in... that way.

Glancing down at himself, he isn’t sure what to do about his outfit. He’d changed earlier after his ‘episode,’ so his clothes are clean — a new black waistcoat, crisp white shirt, black pants — but he isn’t sure how differently Titanic’s First Class dinner standards vary from his family’s own. It’s been four years since he participated in First Class anything. He doesn’t exactly miss it. 

At twenty-five, having been away from his flesh and blood for four years, the only lessons he can recall from memory are the ones that were beat into him.

A light rap at the door snaps Phillip out of his thoughts. 

Ah, right. 

Dinner. 

Looks like his outfit would have to do, one way or the other.

He takes a deep breath, composing himself, subconsciously smooths out the nonexistent creases in his waistcoat, and opens the door. Artificial smile plastered on, not unlike a doll, he offers his mother his arm.

“Shall we?”

“Phillip, dear,” Catherine gushes, “My boy is so beautiful.”

Seems she’s forgotten about all the scars, blemishes, burns underneath his clothes, left by her own husband. His smile, however fake, dissolves, and Phillip’s lips press into a thin line. He doesn’t say a word.

She leans into his arm as they walk, and along the way she asks questions of grandchildren. Had any women in Europe caught his eye?

Evidently not, as he was traveling alone.

Well, when he does find the ‘perfect lady,’ he simply _must_ propose using his great-grandmother’s elegant, perfect emerald ring. It was the ring every man in the Carlyle family used to propose, and it hadn’t failed them yet. And they simply must get started on grandchildren right away — or right after marriage, of course. She wasn’t getting any younger, and she and Phillip’s father had high hopes for a perfect little grandson.

Of course.

Sometimes Phillip wonders what his life would have been like had he been born a female. Would the abuse at his father’s hand continue, displeased as he would be not to have a son at all? Or would his parents be content with a daughter to dress up in pretty pink ribbons and bows, only to court her off once she turned eighteen?

Catherine is looking at him, frown lines creased between her eyes, and he ducks his head, embarrassed at being caught drifting off. She squeezes his arm, frown dissolving into a smile, and he takes a deep breath.

Focus.

A simple door of solid wood led straight into the First Class dining hall. Phillip holds the door open for his mother, eyes widening as he glances inside.

The room is less intimidating than he’d expected, but no less impressive. Each table is dressed with a white tablecloth, oak chairs with deep green cushioning at every place. There are two chairs at some tables, four at others, six or eight at others still. He’s not sure how many people this dining hall can sit, but it must be at least a few hundred.

Several passengers are already seated, others are still arriving just behind them. Phillip spies an empty two-person table and ushers his mother over. Civil manners not forgotten, he holds her chair out for her before taking a seat himself.

“My,” Catherine breathes, “It is quite impressive, isn’t it?”

Phillip can only nod. For one with an affinity for words, he has suddenly lost the ability to speak.

It still doesn’t feel quite... _real_.

Menus are laid at every place, waiting for them. As Phillip picks his up, he can’t help thinking of Phineas’s friend Lettie, the cook. Obviously she wouldn’t be the mastermind behind every dish served that evening, but which ones would she prepare? Could it be possible that the dish he ordered would be product of her handiness?

Phillip’s gums itch as he scans the menu. Wine is tempting, but... _no_. When the waiter comes, he asks for a glass of ice water.

It’s an act so out-of-character that his mother asks if he’s all right, a look of genuine concern upon her lovely face. Phillip’s cheeks heat up and he ducks his head.

“Fine, Mother,” he mutters. He isn’t sure if she hears him.

He hasn’t had a meal this large since leaving home, and the thought of a six-or-seven course dinner is terribly daunting as he looks the menu over. The roast duck and applesauce sounds most appetizing, but beyond that... he hasn’t a clue how he’ll manage to find room in his stomach. He thinks, maybe, he’s still a little queasy from his ‘incident’ at noontime.

He wonders what the Second Class dinner is like.

Phineas’s admission that he’d probably be in Third Class if it weren’t for his friend echoes in Phillip’s mind, and he can’t help wondering what Phineas’s life was like before boarding Titanic. He, like Phillip, had an American accent, which meant he probably came to England looking for work. If he struggled for money then Phillip suspected that the Second Class meals were a feast themselves compared to what he was used to. Phillip can’t even begin to imagine Phineas’s reaction if he knew what the First Class supper entailed.

“Oysters, dear?” Catherine mumbles. He isn’t sure whether she’s talking to him or to herself, but he nods anyway.

When the waiter comes back with their drinks — ice water for him, red wine for his mother — Phillip manages to find something on the menu to appease his mother, keep her from fretting about his eating habits. Roast duck and applesauce. Oysters. Green peas. Rice. Asparagus. Peaches in Chartreuse jelly. For dessert, French vanilla ice cream.

His stomach rolls again. Not from alcohol this time. No. Simple nerves.

His mother orders the lamb, and he knows that she, too, requests a side of oysters. Beyond that, he tunes the rest of her discussion with the waiter out. 

He wonders what the waitstaff will do with their food if they cannot finish it all.

Hundreds of people... so much waste.

He winces, guilty again. Thankfully, his mother takes no notice.

“I must say,” Catherine begins, taking a sip of her wine, “This may be the finest eatery aboard a ship I’ve been on. Certainly better than the dinky little kitchen I ate in on my way to you.” She wrinkles her nose.

Phillip smiles, to be polite more than anything else.

“If your father were here,” Catherine chuckles, “He’d order for the both of us.”

Phillip sucks in a breath, unsure what to say. Catherine, thankfully, is distracted, turning in her seat to look this way and that.

“All right, Mother?”

“Fine, dear.” She smiles. “Only people-watching while we wait.”

The difference in her demeanor is obvious, though Phillip doesn’t dare say so. If his father were here, she’d be scolded for acting ‘unladylike.’ Ladies don’t gawk at anybody else — certainly not other men.

Phillip isn’t his father, though. He lets Catherine observe, or “gawk,” as she pleases, and the glimmer lighting up her blue eyes is unmistakable. Smiling to himself, he sips at his water.

Near their table sits a family of three — a mother, a father, and a girl of about eight. The girl is wearing a frilly pink and white dress, her pretty black hair done up in matching bows, and Phillip can’t help wondering if it’s her Sunday best or if she has an entire wardrobe of the sort. She’s giggling as she relays an absolutely riveting story to her tired-looking parents. Despite their evident fatigue, they smile and nod and encourage their daughter’s imagination further.

Phillip looks away. Across from him, Catherine is already moving on to watching some other table. She has her chin in her hand, an easy, pleasant smile on her face.

Their dinner arrives not long after, and Catherine immediately straightens up.

And, Phillip has no idea how he’s going to get through this meal. It is... so much food. Food he has done nothing to deserve.

The server lays each dish out one by one. Phillip squirms in his chair, but, thankfully, Catherine doesn’t notice. She insists on saying Grace, and clasps his hands in hers as she bows her head to lead them in prayer.

“Amen,” she whispers.

She seems to have no qualms about where to start, immediately reaching for one of her oysters. Phillip watches her for a moment before turning to his own food, choosing to start with his main dish — the roast duck.

Of course, it is delectable. He knows this, recognizes this, but his appetite does not flare to life. He chews as if watching his own body from a distance, chewing, eating, but tasting nothing.

Just as she did when he was a little boy, Catherine insists Phillip eats his vegetables before they get cold. He chuckles, shakes his head in disbelief... but, just as before, does as told. Thankfully, the peas and asparagus are not hard on his stomach. 

The food is exquisite. He wishes he could enjoy it more.

_(things could be worse... that could be your father sitting across from you)._

Their ice cream is served last so it does not melt. Growing up, Phillip’s father would not allow ice cream in the house so, when he did have some, it was always an extra-special treat. French vanilla was one of Phillip’s favorites.

He, perhaps, eats more than he should, despite the fact he’d been trying to be careful. As their dishes are carted away by the waitstaff, he sits back in his chair and groans.

“All right, dear?”

Catherine has always been a smaller woman, but does not seem affected by the amount of food as much as her son. Then again, she did not completely change her diet for four years.

“Are you going to be sick again?” She frowns, worry lines pulling at her mouth.

“No,” Phillip insists. “Just... a lot of food.”

The frown melts away, and she chuckles.

Around them, people are rising from their chairs, leaving the dining room. The little girl in the pink-and-white dress is half-asleep, eyelids drooping, and her father carries her out.

“...Dear?”

Oh. Catherine was trying to talk to him.

“I’m sorry, Mother. Pardon?” He tears his eyes away from the family and returns his attention to his mother.

“Would you like to accompany me to the reading room?” she asks.

Phillip hesitates.

Instead of answering her, he blurts, “Why do you let him treat you the way he does?”

Catherine freezes. They are now two of the last ones in the dining room, but neither take any notice.

“Excuse me?” she asks slowly.

“I’m not blind, Mother.” He sinks back down into a chair. If one of the waitstaff chases them out then, fine, he’ll leave, but as of right now they are being left alone. “I hardly ever see you without Father around, and you’re like an entirely different person.”

Catherine has fallen silent.

“You love to people-watch, but he’d scold you for staring if he were here right now. At his side, you’re silent... I think we’ve talked more in the past few weeks than we ever have in my life. And... and you _laugh_. I’ve seen your face light up like the stars, Mother. With him, you’re like... a blank slate. Void of any emotion.”

“He would smack you for the way you’re speaking to me,” she whispers.

“And yet, you haven’t. You could... you would have the right to. But, you haven’t... because you know it’s wrong... don’t you?”

Catherine’s eyes, the color he inherited, are cool as she regards him. Her lips press together into a thin line.

She stands, and she leaves. She leaves him behind.

He is ignored.

*

Phillip assumes that his mother went off to the reading room without him, which frees him up to wander on his own. He doesn’t remember where the reading room is, anyway — he probably couldn’t find her again even if he wanted to.

He contemplates simply going back to his cabin, calling it an early night, but he doesn’t. Instead, he explores the vaguely familiar halls... and finds himself standing outside a vaguely familiar door.

He doesn’t remember the cabin number off the top of his head, but he’s certain. This is Phineas’s door.

He should turn around. Go back. He should...

He knocks on the door.

He waits.

...Silence. 

After a moment, he knocks again.

Nobody answers.

Of course. Who was he to assume that Phineas would be sitting around in his cabin, doing nothing? He had decided to explore Titanic further after dinner. He could be anywhere.

Well.... except the swimming pool.

Phillip’s face and neck warm at the memory of that conversation. 

With a sigh, Phillip turns away from the door and returns the way he came. Once back in First Class, he avoids the reading room. He cannot bring himself to face his mother right now. 

Instead, he finds the library. The very place he’d been looking for earlier that morning, before he landed himself in the bar, before he met Phineas.

God, was it really less than twelve hours ago?

Upon entering the library, he gives a quiet nod to the librarian. At his desk sits a plaque displaying the library’s hours — 8 a.m. to 11:30 p.m.

Good. He can make himself comfortable here for awhile.

Before leaving Europe, he’d had a list a mile long of books he’d wanted to read. _The Call of the Wild. White Fang. Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Wuthering Heights._ He finds them all here in this library.

But, there is only one book he wants to read at the moment. The library has this book, too, but Titanic’s copy just won’t do.

Bowing his head, Phillip wishes the librarian a quiet farewell before leaving. He decides he’s had enough exploring for the night and hurries back to his own cabin, where Phineas’s copy of _Great Expectations_ waits under his pillow. 

Phillip can already feel himself relaxing as he arrives at his cabin, closes the door behind him, and changes from his formal dinner attire into a sleeping gown. Now, at least, his mother cannot bother him. If she’d like to talk, she’d simply have to wait until morning.

Settling onto the bed, Phillip pulls _Great Expectations_ out from underneath his pillow. The cover feels as if it could fall apart in his hands. Handling the book like the most delicate flower, Phillip opens to the title page.

There on the title page, before the first chapter, is an inscription. The ink is faded, but still legible.

_To Phineas. My brave boy._

Phillip sucks in a breath. He feels almost guilty, lying here, reading this man’s book. Phineas said his father had died when he was young... Phillip has no idea what else, if anything, Phineas has that once belonged to his father.

But... Phineas gave him the book. Let him borrow it, anyway. He must want Phillip to read it... if Phillip returned it to him unread, he may be insulted.

Phillip holds the book as if it might disintegrate in his hands.

And, he begins to read.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment if you wanna, I am quite excited about this fic 👀


End file.
